Welcome to Swords of Speirling. We are an original fantasy site, set in a fictional world divided into seven kingdoms. We are set in the Medieval-ish/Renaissance period of this world. We have 20+ playable races available, we have no word count, and we are rated mature. Our application process is simple and to-the-point and we are LGBTQ+ friendly, straight-/cisgendered-ally friendly, and ALL racial identities-friendly. We do believe in some order, but we don't take ourselves all that seriously. Jerks need not apply. It is currently WINTER.

We are currently searching for royal family members and military characters, particularly knights.

Owen Impar

The day was early, the sun just beginning to burn away the night's chill. The air hung, crisp and still, perfect for music. The notes danced through the air, as Owen's fingers picked out the melody. He had come into the town in the early hours of dawn, when mists still clung to his skin and clothes with light, cold gossamer kisses. He had scarce little sleep the night before, but new it was too early for bother any innkeep and expect civil treatment, and so he had sat himself down on a partiularly wide street corner and, for something to do, began to fill the morning air of the little town with music.

By now, the town had begun to awaken, and the smell of fresh bread baking, the rumble of wagons and the steady rhythm of people beginning their day began to fill the air. Owen soon began to draw a small crowd. His purse contained enough to gain him a room and a hot meal, but not much more, and it was always smart to have a little spare. So, he put more skill and thought into his playing as he heard coins clink on the stone before him. Just a few coppers, by the sound of it, but it was something.

He was beginning to merge from one song to another, a cheerful lively tune that lent itself well to morning sunshine, good work, and light conversation, when a call echoed across the street."You there! No begging!"Owen paid it no mind, until the sound of heavy boots approached, and a kick caught him hard in his ribs before he could react. The notes of the song fell apart like a jangle of spilled coins, and Owen was knocked to his side, more intent on keeping his precious harp safe than minding his balance. "I said, no begging." The growl of the guard was calm with quiet rage. Owen could not reply, the kick had driven the air from his lungs. He simply knelt on the ground, clutching his harp to his chest, gasping and trying not to choke on his own tongue. A second pair of thumping steps approached. "What's this then?""Just some riffraff."Even without his sight, Owen could picture the two guards all too easily. Large bear-like men, that doubtless wore their heaviest armour and swords, despite there surely being little call for it in a town such as this. Bored, from the endless weeks or months of patrolling quiet streets, power drunk, even this early, and looking to stretch their muscles. "Not...a beggar." Owen finally managed to choke out, as the air slowly returned to his lungs. One of the pair scoffed. "Then what'cha call that racket you were making?" one of them asked. Owen didn't suppose it mattered which of them spoke, to his mind they were virtually indistinguishable"Music," he responded, finally able to draw a full breath he turned more towards the guards, so they wouldn't think he was disrespecting him. "I'm a bard."One of them laughed, while the other stepped forward and spoke. "A bard you say? That's a pretty little toy you got there..." Owen's heart froze in his chest, as his beloved, his precious harp, was cruelly rent from him his grip. "Give it back." He felt like a small boy ordering a bully to put down his favourite toy. But this was no toy. His livelihood, his strength, his hope, his one comfort on cold nights, everything he was, now dangled precariously in the hands of some overgrown... brainless suit of armour. Owen set his jaw, and steeled himself. "Give. It. Back."He could almost hear the guard raise his eyebrow. "And what if I don't, huh?""I'll... What could he do? He had his fire, but that would likely do little more than get him thrown behind bars. But it had been a long night of walking in the cold, and he was tired enough to not trust his silver tongue to talk his way out of this, and he didn't have enough coin for a bribe. And they had his harp.

A heavy hand clapped itself on his shoulder. "Now, just come along with us and-""Give it back." It seemed no matter what he wanted to say, all that came out was those three vital words. Without his harp he would be worse than a blind man. It would be like losing his hands and his voice at once. He would be little more than the pitiful beggar they thought him to be. His fear was an icy lump inside him, but it was quickly giving way to hot, desperate anger. The grip of the savage hand tightened. "Now, look here boy-"[/color] They had his harp! And he was likely going to prison anyway. Gathering his strength, he drew on the heat within him, and with a breath it burst forth from him, encasing himself in a wreathe of flickering, flaring flame. He heard the guard yelp, and the grip was gone from his shoulder. Desperately hoping that this show of power would incite the guards to obedience rather than aggression, Owen put on his best powerful magician voice. "Give. It. BACK!"

It was early morning when Owen dragged himself from the warmth of his rented bed, and opened the inn window out to the street below. Despite the fact that he was certain, from the feel of the light upon his skin, that the sun was only newly risen, the sounds of a busy city well into the business day floated upwards towards him. Owen rubbed his fingers across his forehead. Did no one in this city sleep past dawn? Sighing he turned from the window, and began to prepare for the day.

It had been a late night. He had made bad time on the road into town, arriving hours later than he had intended, and then there was the finding of an inn. A challenge in itself. The one passer by he had been able to stop had been supremely unhelpful, seeming unable to grasp the simple concept that the words "over there" meant nothing to a man who could not see where he was being pointed. As it was, it took far longer than he had liked to find somewhere to sleep. The innkeeper didn't like signing him after hours, but made an exception since it had begun to rain not a minute after Owen passed his door. So it was, with his harp in need of tuning from the humidity in the air before the rain, and his feet throbbing in his boots from the long days of walking, and his pockets noticeably lighter from the room, that Owen collapsed onto the straw mattress and covered himself in coarse woolen blankets.

As he dressed, after dousing himself in cold water from the pitcher in the corner, he noticed what felt like several insect bites dotting his skin. They had certainly not been there the day before. After prodding at them for a minute or two, he went to the mattress and pressed his ear to the fabric. After a few seconds of silence the sound of scurrying parasites reached him. Bed bugs. Of course. He would have to find somewhere else to sleep tonight, and hope that he hadn't contracted some terrible disease from the bites he had already received.

Packing his bag, he thudded downstairs. Not trusting the establishment to have a hygienic kitchen, he left without breakfast, and stepped onto the street. The sounds of the city overwhelmed him for a moment, before he found his bearings and headed off towards what sounded like a corner, where he may be able to set up for a couple of hours. Preoccupied on finding his way, Owen came into sharp collision with someone much larger than himself. For a moment, the smell of sweat, oiled leather and steel assaulted him. "Sorry," he mumbled pulling himself away from the man, and rejoining the crowd. A sudden longing for Ryker seized him. Perhaps it was that he knew the soldier lived somewhere in Greannta, perhaps it was the sudden exposure to scents that he always associated with the fae, or perhaps it had simply been too long. Regardless. he was made aware of just how much he missed Ryker. Even now, as he sat down on the street corner, he could have sworn he caught snatches of the man he lov- missed. Of the man he missed through the crowd.

He spent a few moments tuning his harp, and began to play. The first song he chose was an old Eacharnach folk song, about a fine Lady who runs away with a common gypsy. The tune was simple, easy enough to whistle while mucking stalls or ploughing fields, but Owen added his own flourishes, weaving them into the common tune effortlessly. He began to sing. "There were three young gypsies come to our Hall door, They came brave and boldly, oh, And one sang high, And one sang low, And and the other sang a raggle taggle gypsy, oh."And so the song went, detailing the Lord coming home to find his Lady gone, his search to find them, culminating when he finally catches up to them and his questions for the Lady. " 'How could you leave your house and your land? How could you leave your money, oh? How could you leave your newly wedded Lord? All for the raggle taggle gypsy, oh?' "Pitching his voice up, but not so high as to enter falsetto, Owen softened the tone of his words, having to work harder around the vocal trick to project into the crowd, he sang the Lady's reply. " 'Well, what care I for my house and my land? What care I for money, oh?Tonight I'll lie in a wide open field, In the arms of my raggle taggle gypsy, oh!' "

As he plucked the final refrain of the song, listening hard, Owen became certain of it. Ryker was somewhere nearby.

Market day. Crowds, vendors shouting about their wares, patrons bargaining over prices, and music. Despite the heavy smell of fish in the air, Owen took a deep breath. The sun was warm, unusually so for this time of year, and he was surrounded by noise and people. He was in his element. Even though he could no longer see the festivities, he still loved markets. People arrived with full pockets ready to be emptied, and, in his experience, they were usually more than willing to part with some silver for anyone who could add to the carnival atmosphere. Owen wandered around some, half feeling his way through the crowd with his walking stick and his hand, half listening for a good spot to sit and play for a while. With the echoes of all the people around him, it was easy to listen for breaks and valleys where the traffic was slower. Owen always operated better with a lot of sound around him, perhaps he might even go a day without getting lost in the maze of city streets. He certainly hoped so. Suddenly, Owen collided sharply with another person. The sound of a basket being dropped and its contents scattered immediately made him crouch to retrieve the fallen items. "I am so sorry!" he exclaimed, groping for the basket, and was rewarded when his fingers brushed woven straw. Pulling the basket towards him, he began placing items into it as best he could. It was only then, that he realised he had received no reply, nor did it seem that anyone was helping him. Ï am sorry... Are you alright?... Are you still there?" he asked, hoping that whoever he had bumped into hadn't run off, and that he was addressing more than just empty air.

Owen stood on the steps of the Library, and shivered while he fidgeted. He shrugged his cloak further over his shoulders as his deft fingers wove around each other in a patience game that also happened to teach scales for the flute. He had practised it so often as a child that over the years it had become a sort of nervous tick. Owen always got nervous when hope reared its head.

The woman he had come here to meet was supposed to be a genius. According to several threads of gossip he had heard, her skill at combining magic and science was unmatched. A merchant in Freumhach had sworn that a trader of his had seen her perform a miracle on the streets of Speur-Ghlan not one month ago. There were whisperings in the taverns to the south that she had found a way to mix seelie and unseelie magic together, and had been exiled for it. A traveller had said that she could control all the birds of the sky. Another said that it was ridiculous, but that she could become any bird she pleased. Yet another scoffed at them both and said that she was probably just a banshee with a sense of humour. The second traveller then claimed that he had seen her become a whole flock of ravens before his very eyes, and that if it was a lie then Lady Death could come for him in his sleep. The traveller hadn't died during the night, so that was something.

Owen wasn't fool enough to believe most of the gossip. He knew well how stories changed and grew the more they were told. But if even half of the more believable ones were true, then he felt he was justified to a bit of hope. So he'd called in a favour he was owed and helped arrange a meeting. Regardless of who she was or what she could do for him, Owen's meeting with Iyel Iadi promised to be an interesting one. He was, however, unsure why exactly they were meeting at the Library, but he supposed that too would be answered.

The noise of the street made it difficult to pick out individual footsteps, especially since he didn't know what he was listening for. Then from is left, a small female voice caught his attention.

To be perfectly honest the first time Owen was allowed to play at the Pixie Dust Inn and Tavern, he had been surprised. The place was staffed by singing pixies, why would they want a human bard? But once he had sung his set, the place quiet until he was finished, some of the staff harmonizing when they knew the words, he understood. Not to mention all the people thanking him afterwards for playing songs they had never heard before or for telling a story from their childhood, he knew that he would make a good living here in Teumnach. It was now three years later and the third time he had played the Inn. Here people still had coin and applause to spare for good music. Unlike some other places he could think of. Owen paused for breath between songs, and to compose himself. The song had been a love ballad from Eachernach, and no matter how many times he played it it still moved him. Tonight, as his harp rung out into the near silent taproom, it was no different. There was a soft applause, but before it died down fully Owen's fingers were dancing across the stings of his harp. It was an active, intense song. The sort of thing Owen imagined people dancing to, feet pounding out a beat upon the ground. Or fighting to, swords ringing as each man fought for their very lives. Or having sex to... he did not allow himself to take that image any further lest he be distracted, and began to sing. "Fire in the head- I'm a flame in motion- Fire in the head- I'm a sword that's sharp- Fire in the head- I'm a shield in battle, a drop in the ocean and a string in a harp- I'm an eagle soaring- I'm a spoken word, a grain of wheat and a cauldron stirred. Fire in the head!"After the high tennor of the love song, it felt good to drop into at least a mid-baritone. Someone began thumping their feet upon the wooden floor, and the hollow beat rose as more people joined in. Owen's plucking at the harp strings become more aggressive, in order to keep up. The song grew faster and faster, Owen could barely feel the tips of his fingers connect with the strings, yet the notes skipped into the air with perfect precision and his voice did not waver as the whole tavern joined in the final, deliberately predictable, line. Applause exploded in the tavern, someone called for a round of drinks.Owen begged exhaustion and made his halting, uncertain way to the bar. The people around him were making enough sound that he could figure out where most things were, but that didn't stop him from stumbling a few times when a chair or foot were unexpectedly in the way. Luckily he was used to tripping enough that he covered it up fairly well, and approached the innkeep with not too much difficulty.

He ordered his drink, honey mead, but when he went to pay, his money was pushed back into his hand. "No need. People have been paying for your drinks since you started playin'. You could drown in mead for all the coin I collected tonight." The innkeep chuckled, then his tone turned thoughtful. "One gentleman in particular seemed eager. Dark hair, pointed ears. I seen him around some, not much but some.Owen did not bother explaining that it was useless to describe the appearance of the man, he could be standing directly in front of him and have no idea as to the colour of the man's hair. Even so, he would like to meet his mysterious benefactor. No sooner had the thought entered his head, did a voice come from behind him.